


Gunpowder & Mountain Ash

by chibifanwriter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, completely disregards S3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibifanwriter/pseuds/chibifanwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gun lessons start when he’s ten. The mountain ash comes later.</p><p>In which Stiles proves he’s more than just 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. Sarcasm may be his only defence but no one ever asked about his offence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is, at the moment, a WIP. I will be posting up more as the story progresses but updates will, unfortunately, probably be sporadic. However, if you read this anyway, thank you!

Stiles’ dad gave him his first gun lesson when he was ten. He’d stood behind Stiles at the range, quietly correcting his stance as Stiles tried not to notice how heavy the small revolver felt in his hand.

He’d missed the target by a mile on his first try.

He hadn't been much better on his second and third tries but, slowly, with his dad’s steady encouragement in his ear, he’d begun actually hitting the target, inching closer and closer until, on the eve of his eleventh birthday, he’d actually hit the bull’s eye.

They’d gone out for burgers, curly fries and milkshakes. Even his mum had come along, though she’d hated guns and had fundamentally disagreed with the lessons (even if she’d been nothing but encouraging whenever Stiles had talked to her about them).

She was gone by his twelfth birthday and the lessons stopped. Stiles and his dad sunk into their separate grief, moving through the house and around the ghost neither of them were willing to talk about.

It might have gone like that for years, if Stiles hadn't been willing to fight for his family. He’d lost one parent, he wasn't losing another. So he’d pushed, prodded, nagged his dad, back from the bottle and back into the world. 

He attempted to cook, realized he wasn't too good at it and resorted to take out. He listened in on his dad’s conversations, learnt the code so he could keep track of what his dad was up to. He managed to read his dad’s medical report, much to his dad’s chagrin, and tailored their meals to the doctor’s recommendation.

He gets into trouble, constantly, because it reminds his dad that he’s here, he’s still alive and he’s not going anywhere any time soon. He brings his dad back from the brink and he keeps him rooted in the now.

The gun lessons don’t start back up until he’s fourteen and his dad wakes to find Stiles attempting to remove his holster so he can sleep better. Stiles remembers all the gun safety lessons but he’s rusty and he nearly releases the safety. 

The next day, he finds himself back at the range, with his dad at his back and his hands steady on Stiles’ own.

Since then it’s something that becomes theirs. Something Stiles shares with no one, not even Scott. He learns about handguns, revolvers, shot guns. His dad even shows him how to use the Sherriff’s department’s one rifle, slowly counting his breath with him, hand warm on the back of Stiles’ neck. 

He’s good and he gets better, moving from stationary targets to moving ones. He hits the target every time, and gets the bull’s eye twenty-five percent of the time. He and his dad start a running competition. His dad still wins most of the time, but Stiles is slowly catching up.

Then he’s sixteen and Scott gets bitten by a rabid werewolf and everything goes to shit. 

He learns that fairy tales do come true but Disney got everything so. very. fucking. wrong. There are things in the night that bite, not bump, and werewolves are not big fluffy creatures, they’re terrifying half man-half beast, thank you very much Twilight.

Somewhere along the way, the trips to the range drop from weekly to monthly to whenever one of them is free. Stiles hasn't touched a gun in months when one of the Alphas appears from the shadows of the Argents’ house as Stiles is preparing to leave after giving Allison a message from Scott. 

His eyes are red, his claws are out and Stiles is barging his way back into the house before he can think about it. He and Allison scuttle to the garage because Stiles had brilliantly thought that it would be better to come by when her dad isn't home, so there’s no experienced, crack shot hunter to chase away the big bad wolf.

Which is probably what he’d been waiting for and, fuck, the Alphas know Allison is an Argent, a hunter from birth, but as far as they’re concerned, Stiles is a liability, a goofy hyperactive kid who trips over his own feet when he’s not looking.

The asswolf is planning to use Stiles to get to Allison, and then use Allison to get to Scott and, from there, to Derek and his pack and, thanks very much but Stiles is not letting that happen.

He heads straight for the very pretty gun cage, picking the lock with a paper clip he does not keep in his pocket for just that purpose. He can hear Allison grabbing her bow, her crossbow and her arrows, and ignores it all to take his favored gun model, checking the chamber and magazine before loading it up with the bullets that are handily lined at the bottom of the cage. He grabs a few spare magazines, loads them up as well and sticks the lot in his jacket pocket.

“Stiles, oh my god, what are you doing?”

“We should get to the roof,” Stiles says instead of answering her question. “Better vantage point. How good are you in the dark?”

Allison gives him a pointed look, sweeping down to envelop the gun in his hand. “Stupid question,” he acknowledges and goes to the garage door, putting his ear to it. He can’t hear anything but that doesn't mean there’s nothing there—werewolves have stayed hidden for years for as reason. 

He cautiously pushes the door, Allison with an arrow already on the draw, but there really is nothing there. They walk through the house slowly, doing a quick sweep of the rooms they pass, but everything’s empty. They get to Allison’s room unhindered and once Stiles takes a look through the window, he sees why.

They’re surrounded. The Alpha pack is watching them with those creepy red glowing eyes, have probably been tracking their movements through the house but they’re just watching. Stiles, ignoring Allison’s hisses, sticks the gun into his pocket and clambers out the window and onto the roof.

And there’s the reason the Alphas haven’t moved. The head Alpha (who Stiles has labelled as Alpha Bitch for what he did to Stiles’ jeep last week) is nowhere in sight. So they’re waiting.

Well, Stiles has always hated waiting.

As Allison climbs up to him, Stiles takes aim and, very calmly, shoots the nearest Alpha in the ear. He’d aimed for the shoulder but no one needs to know that. As the Alpha crumples and the others turn those red eyes towards the roof, Stiles is very grateful for the silencer he’d screwed on. It’d be awkward as hell if someone called the cops. He really doesn't want to explain to his dad what he’s doing on the Argents’ roof with a gun in his hand.

“Oh my god Stiles what the hell?”

Stiles rolls his eyes because, really? “Do you want to stay stuck on this roof until Alpha Bitch gets here because that’s not how I was planning to spend my night. I have a date with the couch and the TV and my dad. The one night of the week dad finally gets off early enough for us to have dinner and you bitches show up,” Stiles raises his voice so they know he’s talking to him, “and ruin everything.”

As expected (because werewolves are pissy bitches who can’t not respond), one turns in a snarl and Allison shoots her in the chest before she can do more than take a half step forward. 

Stiles shoots the guy who starts for her in the knee, then again in the shoulder because he remembers the little shit from the woods two weeks ago, where he’s almost caught up with Scott before Stiles ran him over. 

“Please tell me you called for help,” he murmurs, low as he can even as he keeps on eye on the rest of the Alphas, who seem to have decided that caution is best once they realized Stiles (and Allison) isn't as hapless as he looks. 

Allison stares at him askance. “You didn't?”

“Hello,” Stiles says, waving his hands and ignoring the way she moves to avoid the gun. “Bit busy here.” He takes a shot at a werewolf inching his way towards them, hitting the ground in front of him. “Unless you’d rather take point while I take out my cell and call Scott who, by the way, is more like to take a call from you.”

Allison at least looks abashed, even as she releases another arrow. “ I've already pushed my panic button.”

Stiles has to stop shooting to ogle at her for a moment. “You have a panic button?”

“Dad gave it to me,” Allison mutters, sounding a little put out which Stiles doesn't get because, hello, panic button, that’s like something out of a movie. “He just went to get groceries, he should be here soon.”

As if on cue, and, seriously, what is Allison’s life?, a familiar black SUV squeals into the driveway and the driver’s door swings open, Chris Argent getting out of it already shooting. He takes out one Alpha and injures another before they figure out what’s happening. 

What is surprising are the werewolves that rocket from the back of the house. How they knew to come, or managed to defeat the Alphas that had staked out the back, Stiles has no idea, but they’re launching themselves into the fray as Allison’s dad climbs on the freaking car for a better vantage.

Stiles really wants to gape but an Alpha has managed to break away and is climbing the house, obviously trying to make his way to who they think are the weakest of the pack.

Stiles shoots him dead center of the forehead and Allison catches him in the shoulder. 

After that, everything seems to die down. Stiles isn’t too sure what happened but next thing he knows, Scott has managed to scale the house, hauling himself up easily beside Allison. “Are you ok?” And of course, he’s not asking both of them, eyes only on Allison.

Stiles rolls his eyes because he can and checks the gun over before finally thumbing the safety back on. He’d forgotten a holster so he sticks the gun in his back pocket and climbs back into Allison’s room, trying not to drop anything and accidentally brain any other werewolves stupid enough to climb to the roof instead of going in the house and taking the fucking stairs.

And, because this is his life, Chris Argent is waiting by the window, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Awkwardly, Stiles takes out the gun, holds it out. Mr. Argent takes it but his expression doesn't change.  
Stiles has never been good with loaded silences. “So, that happened. For the record, I didn't call Scott, Derek or Isaac so the werewolves running around your property? Not my fault.”

“I know. I called them.” And that answer is unexpected enough that Stiles gapes him at him. Mr. Argent doesn't seem to notice, checking the gun over like Stiles doesn't know what he’s doing which, okay, on second thought, maybe Mr. Argent’s right to check the gun out, Stiles is kinda rusty.

“What the hell,” Derek says as he climbs through the window like he doesn't know doors exist, like the creeper that he is, “was that.” And look, another statement disguised as a question!

“The Alpha pack. You know, the big, bad wolves that are bigger and badder than you. Both of you,” Stiles adds Isaac’s decided to climb in through the window as well. Hasn't either of them ever heard of a door? He’s pretty sure Isaac has, he’s seen him use the doors at Scott’s house plenty of time this summer.

“The gun, Stiles,” Derek growls, because he’s incapable of doing anything else around Stiles these days. “What the hell was that with the gun?”

“I don’t like waiting and I don’t play the damsel in distress part very well. Or at all.”

“You could have hurt Allison!” Scott says as he finally appears, herding Allison in through the window before he slides in. And, wow, the room is suddenly very full, and Stiles takes a step back from everything.

“I didn't,” he points out sensibly, as point the first. “I hurt the Alphas,” he added, to emphasize point the first, since everyone seemed to be forgetting that freaking Alphas had had Allison and (seemingly but not really helpless) he surrounded. “My dad’s the Sheriff and, before that, he was a deputy.” He adds, as point the second. “It was either gun lessons or never let me touch them, ever, which would never have worked.”

“You’re a good shot,” Mr. Argent says. 

Stiles doesn't really like the way he’s staring, and he shrugs to try get rid of the creeper alert feeling. “It’s a good stress reliever.” The fact that he’s imagined the target to be good ol’ undead Uncle Peter doesn't need to be mentioned. It helps that he’s not here, sent to find Erica and Boyd by Derek.

“Good with guns, amateur with magic,” Mr. Argent says. “Anything else I need to know about you?”

“I can fly. But only on the new moon. Something about moonlight restricting my fairy powers.”

“Funny,” Mr. Argent says and, wow, look at that, he can do dry drier than Derek does dry.

“I am,” Stiles agrees, since he’s a smart ass and he can’t keep his mouth shut in the best of circumstances. “Very much. Ask Scott, he’ll agree.” 

Nobody says anything, just keeps staring at him like he’s something on a Petri dish and Stiles very much wants out of this situation, thank you. And, as if on cue, his phone rings, thank you dad for being a neurotic parent after months of your son running around, lying and getting into trouble.

Stiles scrambles for the phone, ignoring everyone as they make moves to stop him from scuttling out of the room, phone pressed to his ear already. “Dad! Dad-io, my father, hello.”

And, of course, his dad’s first words are “did you break into my liquor cabinet again?”

“What?” Siles asks, well aware there are werewolves with frigging werewolf hearing in the vicinity. “No. I’m underage dad, why would I—again. You said again. What do you mean again?”

“I do keep track of how much alcohol I keep around the house.” And hey, his tone could rival Mr. Argent’s in terms of dryness. Hell, his tone could rival Arizona in terms of dryness.

“Um…”

“Where are you? I thought you were picking up dinner on the way back from Allison’s.”

“ I've been, er, detained. But I’m on my way now!”

“Are you driving and talking to me on the phone?”

“No!”

“Then you’re not on the way.”

Stiles could feel himself deflate, the only way his dad could manage. He hung his head. “No.”

“And you probably won’t have time to pick up dinner before I’m home.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll pick it up.”

Something in his dad’s voice makes Stiles jerk his head up, eyes narrowing, even as he finally reaches the front door and cautiously pushes it open to find, thank god, no werewolves. Well, apart from the one leaning on the hood of his jeep but Stiles is going to ignore that.

“No, dad, it’s okay, I’m perfectly capable of swinging round to—”

“Nah, it’s alright,” his dad interrupts, sounding downright cheerful and that has Stiles hurrying towards his jeep, trying to find his keys and open it and still ignoring the werewolf on the hood. “ I've got it son. You just head on home.”

Stiles manages to get the door open but, before he can get in, there’s hand on his arm, jerking him back. He turns to glare at Derek, who glares right back at him and, okay, maybe Derek’s got the better glare but Stiles is only human!

“Okay dad, but at least get a salad, please, no curly fries. No, wait, curly fries for me. But none for you. Blood pressure, dad, remember it, it’s important.”

“If you get curly fries, then I get curly fries.” And then his dad promptly hangs up on him. 

Stiles groans, drops his head on the door and says to Derek, “you can let go of my arm now, Jesus, it’s not like you can’t keep pace with my Jeep.”

Derek growls at that—he’s always growling nowadays—and swings Stiles around so he’s facing him, before letting go. “The gun,” he starts and Stiles explodes.

“Oh my god, seriously, you’re not done with that? Dad gave me gun lessons, I swear I know what I’m doing and, no, I did not come here looking for trouble, it found me. Or stalked me, kind of like what you’re doing now.”

Derek blew out a breath. It was low and more growly than breathy. “The gun had normal bullets in it.”

That stops Stiles. “What? No. They were wolfsbane. They said wolfsbane on the box.”

“Because they’re supposed to be modified to carry wolfsbane. Wolfsbane bullets are kept in a wooden box. Scott didn't tell you this?”

“Wooden box?” Stiles repeats, because he remembers seeing a wooden box, a fancy carved one with equally fancy writing carved into it. He’d vaguely recognized the language as French but had dismissed it as inconsequential in the face of Alpha werewolves apparently attacking. “Fuck.”

“You shot several Alphas with nothing more than normal bullets and they stayed down.” 

“I shot most of them in the head!”

“Most of them,” Derek repeats. “Not all of them.”

Stiles—Stiles can’t deal with this now. His dad’s waiting for him, probably heading over to pick up a heart attack inducing meal because the man does not know how to take of himself, no matter what he says. And it’s been a messed up summer, hell, it’s been a messed up year and for all his excitement and throwing himself in head first, he still wakes up sweating, hands up to ward off the heavy fist. 

And he wants a break, just a small break, with his dad, without werewolves and the shit that comes with them messing them up. And this is the first time in almost a month his dad’s been able to come home early. Stiles isn't messing this up, not like he’s messed everything else up.

“Better than none of them,” he retorts because sometimes, his tongue is faster than his brain and, yes, this is partially the reason he keeps getting into trouble. That and his low impulse control. “Look, we can figure out this mystery later, right? We've got, what, three Alphas down now, that’s three more than before and, hey, I’m calling this a good night.” He gets into the jeep before Derek can reply, slamming the door shut in the same move. “Don’t follow me, I mean it Derek, don’t be a fucking creeper, not tonight.” He puts the key in the ignition, twists it and, thank god, the engine roars to life immediately. 

“This is me time.” He adds, winding down his window so his glare isn't veiled. Doesn't seem to make a difference, if Derek’s expression is any indication, but Stiles has never let that stop him before. “Stiles time. We can talk about your issues tomorrow. Tonight, I’m done.”

With that, he peels out of the driveway and resolutely does not look in the rear view mirror, at Derek standing in the driveway, and Scott and Allison and Mr. Argent gathering in the open doorway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dad's meant to be safe, meant to not know anything, meant to be protected. 
> 
> Fucking Alphas.

Stiles’ relationship with his dad has never been what people would term as normal.

There’s too much sarcasm, awkwardness and grief between them for them to be the sort of father and son combo Stiles sees around the park sometimes, throwing a ball or playing an impromptu game of football with other father and son combos.

Beside, Stiles hates football and there’s a reason he dropped baseball. 

(It reminds him too much of hot summer days and playing catch with his dad while his mom sat on the back porch and watched, her laughter filling the humid air)

But there’s just the two of them now and even if they aren’t as close as Hollywood insists single fathers with their sons are meant to be, they’re still a team, one Stiles wove out of fear, hope and pure bull-headed stubbornness. 

It’s a team that’s been drifting apart this past year, small rifts that grew bigger the more lies Stiles spouted off, the more things he kept from his dad. It’s a rift that’s showing slow signs of healing, though Stiles supposes it’s more to do with him sticking between his room, Scott’s house, the lacrosse field and Allison’s house. 

Fewer opportunities to get into trouble means he’s lying to his dad a lot less and that goes a long way to establishing some of the trust they’d once shared. 

So it’s a welcome surprise when his dad stops in front of his open door the day after the whole Alpha—gun—dead thing, leaning on the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. “We haven’t talked in a while,” dad says, apropos of nothing and Stiles turns in his desk chair to look at him.

“We talked yesterday,” Stiles says, because he’s incapable of not sassing his dad. “Over dinner.”

Dad raises a brow. “You mean the thirty second one where you complained the fries were too salty for my blood pressure and I said I’d eat my fries any way I want as I’m the one paying for them?” He waits a beat. “That one doesn’t count.”

“Words were spoken, there was an exchange, that’s a conversation.” Stiles has no idea why he’s fighting his dad on this, because his dad is, as usual, speaking the truth, but it’s fun, the back and forth, and something they haven’t done in a while.

“Not in my book.” He pushes off the door jamb, takes the three steps to Stiles and cuffs him lightly on the back of the head. Then he slides that open palm over Stiles’ head and blunt fingers hook into his collar. “C’mon.”

“What? Where’re we going?”

“Grocery shopping.”

“But,” Stiles grabs at his desk, scrambles when his dad simply hauls him out of his chair. “It’s Saturday.” 

Dad pauses, raises the eyebrow-of-doom and Stiles winces. “I don’t have a shift today and the kitchen’s looking a little bare. But if you’re too busy,” he unhooks his fingers from Stiles’ collars, spreads them and the ones on his other hand wide. “I guess I’ll just get some of those TV dinner things. The healthy ones, to make you happy.”

“No,” Stiles says hastily because that, that is such a bad idea, it trumps all his other bad ideas. Apart from the bad idea that got Scott bit. That was a really bad idea. 

“No,” he repeats and grabs his phone, stuffs it in his pocket. “No TV dinner, not ever again, the microwave nearly blew up.”

“That was your fault,” Dad points out, which, fair point, Stiles hadn’t taken the cling wrap off that TV dinner, he hadn’t known you had to, there had been no clear instructions—that he’d read. He doesn’t like to talk about it.

“And that is why no TV dinners, not ever again,” Stiles repeats and pulls a hoodie from his dresser. “And no chips!” He adds when he sees the Dad’s already out his door and heading down the stairs. “We discussed this, no chips, they’re bad for your sodium levels, so, so bad.”

“You discussed it,” Dad says, “I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise.”

“We talked about the problem,” Stiles continues, clattering down the stairs behind him. “It was talked about, and things were agreed on.”

“You talked about it,” Dad says, as if repeating something means Stiles will actually listen. “You agreed on things. I think, by that time, I was gone.” He takes the keys for Stiles’ jeep from the side table, swings them idly around a finger. “Come on, I want to get back before the game.”

Stiles blinks at him. “I’m not driving? There’s a game on tonight?”

Dad rolls his eyes, grabs Stiles by the shoulder and pushes him towards the door. Stiles hastens to open it. “I have obviously raised you wrong. There’s a game on tonight, really son?”

“My jeep!” Stiles protests, pin wheeling his arms and choosing to ignore what Dad just said because who cares about football – or baseball – or hockey — or whatever game season it was. 

“I’m still driving,” Dad says, holding up the keys and jangling them to make his point. 

“We’re not taking the cruiser?”

“Sometimes, I like to pretend I’m not on duty. That means taking a vehicle that does not have police markings on it. Now get in the jeep.”

Stiles squawks a protest but climbs in when Dad unlocks the doors, throwing himself against the seat and fumbling with the seatbelt. It’s weird, being on the passenger side. “You know, not letting me drive my own jeep shows a serious issue with control.”

“I’m the Sherriff,” Dad says, gunning the engine and backing out the drive way. “What part of control issues surprises you? Also, I got you this jeep.”

“I paid for it! Part of it,” Stiles amends and Dad turns to give him a quick smile. 

“And I’m still proud of you for that, even if we’re not allowed in This Side of the Grill anymore.”

“It was just a few plates,” Stiles mutters and crosses his arms because he’s still a little resentful over that. Seriously, This Side of the Grill serves the best garlic bread in town and he’s not even allowed to order take out from it. 

“A few plates, three trays stacked high, to-may-to, to-mah-to,” Dad says, the smirk around his mouth telling Stiles he thinks he’s being funny.

Stiles didn’t get his sense of humor from Mom, that’s for sure. “Speaking of tomatoes, do we need them? How bare is bare?”

“I was looking to make a sandwich and couldn’t find anything put in it. Also, I couldn’t find any bread. So, bare might have been an understatement.”

“Okay, so all the essentials then.” Stiles unbuckles the seatbelt before his dad can shift into park and earns himself an annoying look. “I’m safe!”

Dad doesn’t say anything but he makes it a point to switch off the engine before even reaching for his belt. Stiles rolls his eyes and tumbles out the jeep, making a beeline for an abandoned shopping cart. Quick check of the wheels to make sure none move funny and then he’s headed for the entrance, Dad trailing behind.

“I think we need more milk,” Stiles says, “and cheese. Oh! How long have the eggs been in the fridge, we might need new ones.”

“Hold up son,” Dad grabs him by the neck to stop him and, to Stiles’ astonishment, digs into the pocket of his jacket and takes out a badly folded sheet of paper.

“Did you make a grocery list?”

“Melissa suggested it after the time I found three sacks of flour in the cupboard—which is funny because you don’t bake.”

“I bake! Occasionally,” he amends when Dad looks at him over the top of the reading glasses he’s slipped on. “Very, very occasionally.”

“If you could do something about the floor, I’ll overlook the five different types of cereal.”

“I like variety!”

“And that is why we now have a grocery list.” Dad waves it under Stiles’ nose. “Now, first item is—vegetables.”

“What type?”

“I dunno,” looking disgruntled, Dad pushes Stiles and the cart over to the fresh produce section. “Whatever rabbit food you think I need.”

Stiles twists so he can look at Dad. “Did Mrs. McCall also make the grocery list?”

“She started it,” Dad replies, keeping his eyes focused on the paper in his hand. “I finished it. Go get lettuce and tomatoes, I’ll get the cucumbers and mushrooms.”

“Technically, tomatoes aren’t vegetables. Going,” Stiles says, holding up his hands when his dad sighs. “Lettuce and tomatoes, okay.” 

He grabs some carrots and celery as well, just because, and ignores Dad’s grimace as he dumps them in the cart. They make their way through the list with limited argument—Dad spends five minutes giving a pretty impassioned speech on the need for a huge party pack of Cheetos before Stiles manages to twist it out of his hands and put it back on the shelf—and load the bags in the bag of the jeep, securing anything that’s breakable. 

Dad drives back home as well, because he has control issues and also because Stiles couldn’t take the keys back. Dad goes in first, with a couple of bags, while Stiles tries to gather as many bags as possible into his arms. He only manages three but they’re pretty stuff and more than Dad picked up so he’s smirking as he pushes his way into the kitchen. “Dad, how about hotdogs for lunch? I’ll even let you have normal dogs instead of tofurky!”

He’s grinning, waiting for his dad’s snarky reply on how turkey dogs aren’t normal dogs, so he doesn’t notice how deadly quiet the house is, how the bags his dad carried in are on the floor and not on the counter until he’s slammed the door shut.

His dad’s frozen beside the table, the bags at his feet, everything in them scattered on the floor. And there’s an Alpha behind him, claws out and digging into the tend skin of his throat.

Stiles’s arms go lax and he’s distantly aware of the bags tumbling to the floor, the crunch of eggs breaking. 

“Dad?”

“Stiles,” Dad says and he sounds strangle, like there isn’t a werewolf with her hands wrapped around his throat. 

This can’t be happening, this just—she can’t be here, there is not a werewolf in his house, in his fucking kitchen with her dirty, filthy claws digging into his dad’s neck.

This isn’t happening.

“Your heart’s beating like a rabbit on the run,” the Alpha says and, god, she’s got her fangs out, why does she have her fangs out? “Steady and slow as a drum when you’re shooting my pack but scared as a deer when your pack’s in danger, aren’t you?” She’s spitting the words out and Stiles can’t register them, not properly, because her claws, oh god, her claws are digging into his dad’s skin and is that blood, that’s blood isn’t it?

“Stiles, don’t listen to her,” Dad says and how can he sound so calm, he’s got a freaking werewolf holding him by the neck! “Stiles, son—”

That is blood, oh god, that’s his dad’s blood. 

“Stop it,” Stiles hears and it takes him a moment to realize that’s his voice, how could that be his voice? It’s rough, harsher than he’s ever heard it before. “Just. Stop it.”

“No, I don’t think so. In fact,” she smirks and dips her head, sets her fangs lightly on his neck and Stiles can see how his dad’s skin depresses slightly, and he can’t breath, heart pounding hammer hard in his ears and no, no. “I think I’d like to keep him.”

“Get away from him,” and God his voice, he can’t stop it from shaking, he sounds so fucking weak but this is his dad, he can’t, he can’t lose him. 

“Stiles,” Dad’s voice sounds tight now, and his eyes are wide, pupils dilated, sure signs of fear and he’s scared, Stiles has never seen his dad scared before. “Stiles, run, just run son.”

“I can’t,” Stiles manages, blinking rapidly, trying to focus, trying to figure out how the save his dad, get the Alpha the hell away from him. “She’s a werewolf dad, she’ll kill you and me before I even get out the door—I’m not, I can’t take the chance.”

“Werewolf? Stiles—”

“He’s right,” Alpha Claws says and her voice is singsong, mocking and Stiles wants to vomit, wants to do something, anything to get her away from his dad, his dad. “I’d slit your throat and then kill him nice and slow for what he did to my pack.”

“Your—what?”

“I didn’t do anything to your pack!”

“Rick is dead!” She’s snarling, her eyes are bright glowing red, but she’s moved her mouth away from his dad’s neck, her claws are slightly looser. 

And Dad, thank god his dad’s a cop with cop’s instincts, because he takes the opening, lunges to the side and floor, rolling towards Stiles. Stiles grabs the nearest thing in hand—the kettle, it’s heavy, half full of water—and throws it at her head. He misses—it hits her shoulder but she still gets knocked back and Dad’s got the door open and Stiles’ wrist in his hand and they’re running out the door and Dad’s cursing even as he fumbles his phone out of his pocket. 

And suddenly Stiles can breath again, can think and he manages to grab Dad’s phone before he can do more than hit the unlock button. “Dad, no, don’t, it’s, she’s a freaking werewolf, who’s gonna believe us? I have to, my jeep, we have to get to my jeep.”

“We are not doubling back,” Dad snaps, “not while that, that thing is still back there.”

“Dad, please, I’ve got, I’ve got stuff in my jeep—”

Dad’s hand tightens on his wrist, hard enough Stiles knows he’s going to get bruises, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down as they pound down the street and Stiles wonders where everyone is, why no one’s looking out the window, poking their heads out the door to ask the Sherriff and his son why they’re running like maniacs down the road. 

God, he hopes Alpha Claws hasn’t hurt anyone else. 

“Stuff? What stuff? Stiles, how the hell did you know what she is? How did she—she knows you Stiles! How, what, how the hell are you involved in all of this? What is all of this?”

Stiles is only half listening, looking around, trying to figure out if everyone’s alright and sees that the street behind them is empty, there’s no angry she-werewolf running down the road after them.

“Dad, wait, wait,” Stiles tries to dig his heels in but Dad just jerks him forward, gets him running again. “Dad, she’s not following us!”

Dad stops, whirls around fast enough that Stiles runs into him, only manages to keep his balance because Dad wraps his hands around Stiles’ arms, keep him vaguely upright. “Oh god,” Dad says and his hands are trembling, Stiles can hardly believe it, but he can feel them around his arms and then Dad drops his hands and wraps Stiles up in a hug, wraps him up tight enough and Stiles buries his nose in his dad’s shoulders, closes his eyes and breathes his dad’s scent in deep, tries to use it to calm his heart.

“God, son,” Dad pulls back, abruptly so Stiles stumbles back, and grabs him by the shoulders, gives him a quick, hard shake. “What the hell was that back there?”

Stiles stares at him dumbly. Can only think how close he was to losing his dad, to becoming an orphan, how he’s tried so hard to shield his dad from all this, protect him and that, that bitch came into their house. “Scott,” he manages and his brain locks onto the name, onto his best friend and the reason he’ll never stop being involved in this. “We have to go to Scott’s.”

Dad’s mouth thins and his jaw goes tense and Stiles knows that look, it usually precipitates him getting grounded for a month’s time. It’s only happened once and Stiles has never forgotten it. “Fine,” he says and his voice is sharp enough to cut diamond. “We’ll go to Scott’s but we’re not going back to get the car.” 

Stiles looks back, towards their house and yeah, he’s not sure he’ll ever want to go back there, and he hates her for it, hates that she’s taken away the place that’s got the most memories of his mom. 

“Yeah,” he says and takes a deep breath, tries to ignore how shaky it feels, sounds. “Okay. I guess we’re walking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Update! God, this took forever. I wish I could tell you they'll come faster but I'm really not sure about that. But, hey, check out my [tumblr](http://masterprocrastination.tumblr.com/) for story snippets!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott sucks at telling Mrs McCall things. Stiles sucks at keeping quiet.

Mrs. McCall answers the door and, after taking one look at them, her smile drops away and she takes a step back and to the side to let them in. Scott barrels down the stairs because to say subtlety isn’t his strong suit is an understatement. 

“Stiles, what happened? Why do you—Sheriff?” He slows down, stops at the third stair from the bottom, wide eyes bouncing from Stiles to his dad and back again. 

“Scott,” Stiles’ dad says, except he’s not talking as Stiles’ dad to his best friend, he’s talking as Beacon Hill’s Sheriff and everyone in the hallway can hear the difference. 

“Okay,” Mrs. McCall says and claps her hands, loud and sudden enough Stiles jumps and his dad’s hand jumps out, grabs Stiles shoulder. “Right,” she continues, quieter, and Stiles twists to see her close the door. “This isn’t the place to talk about this so, living room, everyone? Come on, go.” 

Scott, because he’s been trained pretty well, automatically tumbles down the stairs and turns left. Stiles follows him, Dad close behind and Mrs. McCall bringing up the rear. They arrange themselves in silence, Scott pretty much plastering himself to Stiles as soon as they’re in the living room, so they end up settling onto one couch with Dad and Mrs. McCall on the opposite one. 

Stiles tries not to fidget but can’t help tapping his fingers on Scott’s knee while Dad and Mrs. McCall just stare at them. Finally, Dad clears his voice. “Well?”

“Well,” Stiles repeats and Scott freaking shrinks into the couch. 

Dad sighs, spreads his hands. “Werewolves?”

Scott’s whole body jerks. “You know?” His voice actually breaks, going squeaky at the end and Stiles can’t help the snicker though it dies when Dad stares at him. 

“It’s kind of hard to miss it when there’s one in my kitchen with her hand round my throat!” 

Stiles jolts back, staring at his dad, who’s lurched to his feet, eyes burning a hole into theirs. Scott lifts his chin, squares his shoulders but Stiles can feel him trembling all along one side of Stiles’ body. Mrs. McCall takes a deep breath and reaches out, lightly touching his dad’s side. “John,” she says and her voice is gentle, nurse calm instead of mom calm, “sit down, give them a moment to explain.”

Dad turns on her. “Wait, you know?”

“It’s kind of hard to miss it,” Mrs. McCall says dryly, “when my son transforms into one right in front of me.”

“Tran—” Dad turns, stares at Scott with wide eyes, drops heavily back into the sofa. “You’re—you’re a werewolf?”

Of course, Scott looks sheepish, gives Dad a stupid little wave that has Stiles resisting the urge to roll his eyes. But that utterly Scott gesture has Dad settling down slightly, moving back from the edge of the sofa. “You’re a werewolf,” he repeats, sounding slightly dazed, not that Stiles can blame him, he can’t imagine what it’s like to find out a kid he’s known since he was seven is suddenly a werewolf. Oh wit, yes he can because that kid is his best friend! 

“Um, yeah,” Scott says, nervous smile playing over his lips. It makes his jaw look even more crooked than usual. “It happened last fall.”

“Last fall,” Dad says and Stiles can practically see the cogs in his head turning and sometimes Stiles really hates that his dad’s a cop. “I’m guessing sometime after we arrested Derek Hale for murder.”

“Before, actually. Like, the night before,” Scott manages after gaping at him for a good minute. Stiles resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “But that was really close. How did you—”

“They don’t gives badges to just about anybody,” Dad says in a voice dry enough to compete with the Sahara desert. “You two started acting even more screwy than usual—well, the usual back then. Sneaking out at night, being places you’re not meant to be, at more crime scenes than before, being at crime scenes before we got called in, lying to me,” and this is directed at Stiles, makes him feel like the bottom of his stomach has just dissolved away, let his guts spill down, “somehow managing to be in the center of all the screwy stuff” and Stiles knows, just knows, that he’s self-censoring himself “happening around town.” 

“Uh. Yeah. When you put it like that,” Scott looks at Stiles, Stiles pretends to not see, “it’s kind of obvious.”

“You’re kids,” Dad says and he sounds tired suddenly, looks haggard and Stiles feels his heart clench, “you’re not spies or hell, even undercover cops. And you two? About as subtle as a freight train. It’s a wonder you haven’t been caught before.”

“Well, most people aren’t looking for supernatural creatures,” Stiles mutters and earns himself an exasperated look from, well, everyone. 

And, what, it wasn’t like they weren’t thinking the same thing.

“Stiles, just,” Dad shakes his head, shifts his focus to Scott and Stiles looks away, shifts from tapping Scott’s knee to the couch’s arm. “Scott, start from the beginning.”

And Scott does, from to the night they snuck out to the find the—Laura’s—dead body, through to trying to figure out who was the Alpha, skimming over Peter Hale’s death and resurrection to the kanima and Jackson and the craziness that was—is?—Gerard Argent. He’s light on how often they nearly died, which Stiles is grateful for. 

“So,” Dad says when Scott stops for a breath. “That’s all that’s happened since you got turned into a werewolf?”

Scott fidgets. “Um, mostly?” And, yeah, there’s a reason Stiles is the one to come up with their excuses.

Dad rubs a hand over his face and Stiles tries not to notice how tired he looks. “Go on then.”

So Scott explains the Alpha Pack, what little they know of them—it pretty much equals to pack of alphas, led by creepy blind dude and his second, Alpha Claws—and the steadily increasing attacks they’ve been mounting on Derek’s and Scott’s packs. Then it winds round to last night and Stiles focuses on not fidgeting too much, even when Dad keeps giving him sidelong looks, though he keeps his attention on Scott. 

From the way Mrs. McCall’s face gets paler and paler, and the line of her mouth gets thinner and thinner, Stiles gathers this is the first time she’s hearing all this which, way to go Scott, great way to break it to your mom, who knows all about werewolves in the first place and kind of supports you.

Stiles knows all about keeping secrets to keep your parent(s) safe, but this, this is not a good way to spill them.

To Mrs. McCall’s credit, she doesn’t call Scott out on it but the look she slants at Stiles tells him she can tell what he’s thinking and that she’ll deal with things in her own way, in her own time, so butt. Out.

Mrs. McCall has very eloquent looks. 

“Which is probably why the Alpha was in your kitchen,” Scott says, winding down but his tone is eager as his mind connects the dots. “Because Stiles took down an Alpha last night.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, keeping his eyes on his dad. “She said as much. Must’ve been the one I shot in the head.”

“I’m glad to see the gun lessons have been put to good use,” Dad says and his tone is dry, dry like the desert, but his hands, when he lifts one to scrub over his hair, are trembling.

Stiles is the worst son in the history of son-ness. Worst ever. If he’d been a better one, he’d have been able to keep this all from his dad, kept anything supernatural and dark in his life and in this town from even touching his dad. 

Instead, he’d managed to bring home an Alpha, one that had wrapped her dirty claws around his dad’s neck and threatened Stiles with his life. 

“Melissa,” Dad says and Mrs. McCall seems to understand because she stands up straight away, disappears into the kitchen.

Stiles can tell Scott’s tracking her movements—not that it’s hard to, even Stiles, with his puny human ears, can hear her opening cupboards and picking up something heavy and glass from the clinking sound—from how his eyes go vague and he tilts his head. From the way his dad watches Scott, Dad can see it too.

They sit in silence until Mrs. McCall comes back, holding two glasses in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in another. She sets the glasses down on the coffee table, pours a healthy measure of whiskey into both and passes one to Dad before downing the other. 

Scott’s eyes widen—probably never seen his mom drink anything harder than wine—but Stiles looks at the bottle and wonders how badly his dad’ll hit his hand if he tries to go for it. Underage, Sheriff’s son, blah blah blah, but god, he wants some, wants the burn down his throat, the warmth in his belly, something to take his mind off the fact that his dad knows, is probably going to get stuck right in the middle of the shitstorm that masquerades as Stiles and Scott’s life now, because that’s the kind of guy his dad is.

Dad sets the glass down, more gently than Stiles was anticipating, and, still leaning forwards, turns his head so he’s looking Stiles right in the eyes. “If I tried to ground you, told you to stay away from all this, how successful will I be?”

Stiles stares, aghast, because come on, his dad’s knows him better than that. He manages to stop the full body flail only because Scott grabs hold of him. “It’s Scott!”

Dad sighs. “I know. Could never pull you two apart once you met,” he adds, sharing a look with Mrs. McCall that’s too commiserating for Stiles’ taste. 

Mrs. McCall laughs. “The pillow incident alone…”

Stiles flails as best he can with Scott still holding onto him. “We promised to never speak of that again!”

“Mom!”

“Keep your pants on,” Mrs. McCall says, waving a dismissive hand. “I wasn’t saying anything. Now,” she leans over, pours a neat measure into her glass but leaves Dad’s glass untouched. “Now that you know, what’re you going to do about this?”

Dad raises an eyebrow and Scott perks up. Stiles drums his fingers on Scott’s thigh and bites the inside of his cheek hard enough he almost draws blood. “I’m not sure what I can do. They haven’t broken any laws that we can prove, have they?”

“Not as far as we know,” Scott admits.

Stiles says nothing because he’s already run through everything his dad can do and the answer is pretty much zilch. The Alpha pack have, unfortunately, been really careful to skirt the line between legal and illegal, and, barring the freaking showdown in their fucking kitchen, have always kept their confrontations strictly on pack or hunter land. 

“So, legally, as the Sheriff, there’s nothing I can do.” Dad’s words make Stiles jerk his chin up. “As a concerned citizen however—”

“No,” Stiles blurts out, loud enough it rings in the room after he’s snapped his mouth shut. “Dad, no. It’s not a good idea.”

Dad raises one eyebrow. Stiles can never make his look that judgey, no matter what Scott says. “Like it was a good idea to keep all,” he waves a hand, “this from me?”

“I was,” Stiles snaps his mouth shut because Mrs. McCall and Scott are sitting right there and he doesn’t do this, doesn’t talk about his emotions in public, not the meaningful ones anyway, not seriously. “Dad.”

Dad scrubs his hand over his face again. “So we can’t make them leave legally, which means we’ll have to resort to—other means.” He looks at Scott. “What plans does Derek Hale? Or Chris Argent? I assume you’re keeping in touch with both of them?”

Scott fidgets because, again, Stiles comes up with their cover stories for a very good reason and that reason is Scott is a lousy liar. “Um—Derek’s not really one for planning? At all? And Mr. Argent doesn’t, exactly, like talking to me. Because of the werewolf—hunter thing? Also, I might be, technically, banned from seeing Allison so…” 

Dad drops his head back. “Crap.”

Mrs. McCall drops her head forward so her hair covers her face, but not before Stiles can see how it’s stamped with exasperation. 

Scott looks at Stiles helplessly and Stiles just gapes at him, shaking his head vigorously because what is he supposed to say? “Right, okay,” Dad says suddenly and Stiles knows that voice, it’s his I’ve got an idea voice and he moves, shifting forward on the couch, elbows balanced on his knees as he leans forward. “This is what we’re going to do.”


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles and Scott’s friendship runs deeper and truer than most people would assume. It’s more than two social misfits who happen to get along, more than their moms were best friends so they’re best friends too. 

Stiles loves Scott, has loved him since their moms introduced them one sticky hot Sunday afternoon that they spent running around a deserted island masquerading as a backyard, eating peanut butter sandwiches and downing ice cold lemonade.

(It’s one of Stiles’ favorite memories and plays in his head with a soundtrack of his mom’s voice and Melissa McCall’s laughter.)

It’s a strong friendship, one that’s stood the test of time, Scott persuading Stiles to join the lacrosse team, Stiles mom’s dying, Scott’s dad leaving, Stiles leaving Scott to get bitten by a rogue werewolf (seriously, fuck Peter Hale), near death experiences and a romance that Stiles is pretty sure took away Scott’s ability to think rationally. 

It’s a friendship that, Stiles will not hesitate to say, is stronger than Jackson’s and Danny’s (theirs is usually one that’s touted as the strongest in high school, but mostly because people are stupid and don’t see the depth of Stiles’ and Scott’s devotion to each other). When Stiles and Scott say they share everything, they’re not kidding.

So Stiles knows the first time Scott kissed someone, Scott knows about Stiles’ first wet dream (the former was dissected over and over again, both of them have tried to scrub the memory of the latter conversation). And Stiles, not Scott or Deaton, is the one who came up with the idea of poisoning good old Gerard Argent’s pills with mountain ash. Deaton, for all his perpetuated deviousness, did not grow up with a cop for a dad. Stiles is sneakier than the sneakiest thing ever. 

But even Stiles couldn’t have come up with a plan as sneaky as this. It probably helps that his dad has years of law and stopping sneaky people under his belt. Stiles hasn’t got that yet. Yet.

As if he can read Stiles’ mind—and he might be able to, they haven’t yet explored how a near life-long friendship affects pack bonds but, hey, summer’s just started—Scott gives him a significant look out the corner of his eye. Stiles keeps his eyes on the road. “What?”

“You really think this will work?”

“Completely unbiased opinion?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Dude, it’s my dad.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “How unbiased do you think I can be?”

“Dude,” Scott returns and this is the point, pre-werewolf transformation where Scott would have punched him. Instead, he just pokes him in the side, hard enough Stiles jumps, though he manages to keep the jeep steady. “Come on.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says honestly because it’s the truth. They don’t have nearly enough information on all the players; they don’t know how Mr. Argent or even Derek will react. Dad’s using intelligent guesswork but it is still just guesswork. “It’s a good plan. We just have to get everyone on board.”

“Just,” Scott repeats and snorts. “Just.”

Stiles reaches out to pat him on the arm. “I know man, I know.” He drops his hand back to shift into a low gear, slowing down to navigate the worn down dirt path to the old Hale house. “But, we gotta try. I don’t want to see my dad’s disappointed face anymore. I’ve seen way too much of it the past few months.”

“Yeah okay,” Scott says, pushing the passenger door open and hopping out. Stiles follows suit. “But seriously, do you think this’ll work?”

Stiles slaps Scott’s shoulder, then reaches out to wrap his arm around his best friend’s shoulders. “Yeah,” he lies, “totally.” They both look up, at the wreck that was the Hale house. 

Derek doesn’t live here, not anymore. He doesn’t live in the abandoned subway car anymore either. He’s got a loft—a loft, Derek’s got a freaking loft—in the city proper, but he prefers to meet here, for reasons known only to him.

Stiles hadn’t seen the Camaro when they drove up but Scott moves towards the somehow still intact porch confidently and, sure enough, Derek is standing at the doorway by the time he and Scott reach the top of the stairs.

He doesn’t say anything—yay, silence, the best way to start any meeting—just steps aside to let them in the house. Like they couldn’t have just walked a couple of feet to the left and climbed in through the giant hole in the wall. 

Scott walks to stand beside the still intact staircase while Stiles hovers by the doorway, watching how Derek wanders around the burnt out husk, bending down every now and then to pull out flowers—wolfsbane flowers. He’s wearing gloves and the way he handles the flowers is gently, cautiously.

“Derek,” Scott starts, then stops when Derek doesn’t immediately look at him. He shifts impatiently. “What, you’re gonna just ignore us? You told us to come out here!”

“You called me,” Derek points out, not bothering to look at him while he slowly teases out another bunch of flowers growing out of the floorboards. “I told you to come out here because here is where I am. So, talk.”

Scott shifts again and Stiles sees how he’s fisting and relaxing his hands, over and over and, hey, maybe it’s time to step in because Scott is obviously not as in control of himself as he thinks he is. “Look Derek,” Stiles says and tries not to flinch when Derek swings his gaze towards him. Dude’s got an intense stare. “We’ve got a plan. Well, my dad’s got a plan. It’s a good plan—a solid plan.”

“Really.” And that is not a good tone. That is a flat tone, a suppressing anger tone. It’s a tone Stiles is way too familiar with. 

Slowly Derek stands. He’s got the flowers in his hand and it’s weird, that he looks so angry but he’s practically cradling the flowers. “A plan. A good plan. A solid plan.” He crosses to where Stiles belatedly realizes he’s got a tarp laid out and more flowers lying on it. “And why should I trust your dad?”

Okay, now Stiles is insulted. Sure, Stiles is a mouthy little shit but his dad—is Dad. “You’ve met him!”

“He arrested me,” Derek says which, okay, true. “Not what you would exactly call a bonding experience.”

“Yeah, okay, but he was just doing his job! He’s the Sheriff, everyone trusts the Sheriff.”

“You mean trust him enough to fire him when they thought he wasn’t doing his job right?” Before Stiles can even think of bristling at the insult to his dad—people were idiots! They’d given him his job back once they’d realized how over their heads they were—Derek’s continuing, pointing at Scott. 

“And you expect me to trust the kid who used me to bite Gerard Argent?” He shakes his head, moving to the far end of the room, as far away from Scott as he could get while still being within the crumbling walls of the wreck. 

And Stiles can only gape because—what, that hadn’t been part of the plan. Okay, yeah, the plan had been to get Derek to bite Gerard, but Derek was supposed to be on board! Scott had told him Derek was on board!

As if oblivious to the way Stiles was staring at Scott and Scott was staring at his shoes—as if that was going to stop the interrogation that Stiles was going to put him through, come on, Scott knows him better than that—Derek continues. “I don’t have any reason to trust any of you and your good, solid plan.” He squats again, teasing out a few more flowers growing through the cracked floorboards and, watching him, Stiles has to wonder what Derek thinks he’s doing.

Pulling out some flowers wasn’t going to magically turn the Hale ruin back into the Hale house, even if they were wolfsbane flowers. 

Derek doesn’t seem to care though, as he pulls out the flowers by their roots and stands, goes round to where a few straggly leaves are peeking out from a small hole in the floor. 

“You’re not even going to listen? Damnit, Derek it is a good plan!” And wow Scott. Just, wow.

Jerking his head to tell Scott to shut up, Stiles finally takes a couple steps into the ruin, careful where he stepped since, hey, not a werewolf and knowing his luck, he’d find the one weak plank that would send him plunging into the basement or, gag, the hole Peter had crawled out for.

“Look, I know you have no reason to trust us,” thanks Scott, “but I’m telling you it’s a good plan. One that actually has a chance of working but only if we all work together.”

Derek doesn’t reply, moving around Stiles to get to the tarp. He starts rolling it up and, shit, he’s leaving, the plan’s going to shit before it even starts and no, he’s not doing that to his dad, no way, he’s disappointed his dad enough times these past few months.

He leaps before he thinks—he really needs to start working on that—and nearly loses his balance, throwing his arms out and flapping them desperately in a bid to stop the fall. Derek grabs his arms, hauls him close. “Like really no reason to trust us,” Stiles babbles because, whoa, Derek is close enough Stiles can see the fleck of gold, brown and green in his ever changing eyes. “But just hear us out, then make up your mind? I mean, what’ve you got to lose?”

Derek’s upper lip curls and he snarls—snarls!—releasing Stiles to wheel back, only gaining his balance with a flail of his arms and a lot of good look. “Fine. Talk fast.” He pulls out a pair of thick gloves out from his back pocket, takes a couple of steps back, turns around and bends down to start pulling out some flowers Stiles thinks look like the wolfsbane flowers he saw online.

Stiles totally does not check out his ass. Even if it is spectacular.

Scott, good buddy that he is, must see that Stiles is a little distracted—he opens his mouth and Derek’s hand shoots out, pointed menacingly—how the hell does the guy manage to point menacingly?—at Scott. “Not from you. Stiles likes to talk—he can do that talking.”

Scott snaps his mouth shut, glares and Stiles jumps in before this can go more shit than it already has. They have one chance---just one or Derek’s done. He can see it in the way Derek’s turned away from them, in the way he keeps his eyes resolutely away from anywhere in their vicinity.

He takes a deep breath and talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've updated this. I've been stuck on it for a while and, unfortunately, after this update it's probably going to be a while until I update this again. My apologies, really, but this story has just been a brick wall in my head for a while and until I work through this I'm afraid this story will be like a desert. It won't be abandoned but it will be a while. I'm so sorry for this but I am working on it!
> 
> *edit. I am SO sorry. This is the correct chapter four. Look! Derek!

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr](http://masterprocrastination.tumblr.com/post/47523526048/gunpowder-mountain-ash-part-1) for those who prefer it.


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